


Twelve Feet Deep

by elianaredfield



Category: Karlie Kloss - Fandom, Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: CIA AU, F/F, fight me, kaylor - Freeform, secret agent AU, this is probably super unrealistic, what am i doing anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elianaredfield/pseuds/elianaredfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You set down your things, and rest your hands on her upper arms, forcing her to look at you, “I am going to keep you safe.  Do you trust me?”</p>
<p>//Karlie Kloss is an operative for the CIA.  Taylor Swift is her protection detail.//</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Feet Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Karlie's DVF Secret Agent campaign, and also as a gift for Kayla. This fic is like...30% smut, 40% Karlie being a badass, 25% Taylor being an idiot, and 5% everything else.
> 
> WARNINGS: violence, murder, death, guns, lesbians

_This one is a big deal, Panther.  Don’t fuck it up._

The quote comes from your supervisor, a man who you only know as Glass. The words ricochet in your head as you step through the gate into the terminal, echoing off the walls of your skull.  Your only carry-on is a simple tan bag, and you tug it farther up on your shoulder as you take off through the airport, long legs allowing you to clear as much territory as possible.  Your height makes you feel like Moses at times, the way shorter crowds split like the waves of the Red Sea. People subtly part for you, pulling their suitcases (that you know from all of your travel experience are too large to serve as carry-ons) out of the way.

You’re in too much of a rush to even bother trying to translate the French wording on the signs like you usually would in an attempt at practice.  You instead follow the English guiding you to baggage claim, heels clicking like heartbeats on the floor.  

The carousel seems to be moving even slower than usually, and you tap your foot impatiently as you wait for the contraption to spit out your suitcase.  Your heartbeat feels loud in your head, and even though you’ve been doing this for five years now, the adrenaline rush still makes you feel a little bit sick, a acidic tang in the back of your throat.

After what feels like maybe three and a half eternities, you see your bag, a small and sleek and unsuspicious black thing.  Your hand wraps around the handle, and in a graceful motion, you pull the handle the same second it touches the ground, and you’re walking like there are lions breathing down the back of your neck.

You’re about to walk outside and catch a cab when another woman slams into you hard enough it rattles your ribs.  Your suitcase skitters away from your grip and your purse falls off your shoulder with a hard thunk.  You’re about to swallow a mouthful of irritation when you realize the other woman has dropped her bag as well, and it perfectly matches yours.

Her bangs tumble over the cliff of her forehead, mostly hiding her fast, and her voice is quiet, “I really need to get some _glasses_.”

She enunciates the last word, and that’s all that needs to be said.  Immediately your brain shifts into a physical maelstrom and whirls in your head so hard you feel dizzy.  But you straighten your spine and your smile.  You grip her bag, and she takes yours.

You walk out the door and catch a cab with a wave of your hand.  As you slip inside, you open the purse, find a business card, and read the address of a hotel off to the driver.

Then you place it neatly back in the pocket you found it.

Right next to the loaded Glock 19.

* * *

The Four Seasons Hotel George V is perhaps the nicest hotel you’ve ever been in, with walls splattered with Renaissance style artwork and freckles of marble statues.  You walk up to the front desk and slide the ID that you found in the bag across the desk.  The woman’s accent is heavily French, sort of deep in her throat and nasally all at once, “Room 314.  The other guest has already checked in.”  

You give a brief smile, thank her, and take the room key into your hand.  In your head you flip wrinkle-cornered pages, reminding yourself of the details.  You know what you’re expecting appearance wise.  Everyone knows the face of the woman waiting for you.  It’s the subtle details you’re remembering, printing them in sharpie in the folds of your brain tissue.

The elevator isn’t empty, unfortunately, and you’re left packing yourself into the corner, shifting your bones awkwardly to fit.  And when the doors open on your floor, it sounds almost like a sigh of relief.

You find your room quickly, rattling the key in the lock, jetlag making your hands just a bit shaky.  It still only takes three swipes for the red light to flicker green, and you push the door open and step into the room.

There’s a clutter of motion from inside, something wild and frantic.  Your hand tenses on the strap of your bag, but when you step into view, you’re met with nothing but the person you were expecting.  Her hair sticks up on her head in a way that reminds you of a young lion.  The red lipstick on her mouth smears at the corners, like she’s been eating cherries or maybe even blood.  She looks younger than you expected, smaller than you expected.

Your mouth twists into a smile, “You must be Taylor.”

* * *

The water from the shower pounds hot against your back, tiny, soaking fires carving trails through the jetlag coating your skin.  You scrub your nails through your hair to clean out any possible shampoo still lathered into it, then you crank the faucet to off.  Blindly, you find one of the incredibly fluffy towels, and you dry yourself off before wrapping it around your body to preserve some modesty, even though a considerable portion of the world has seen you topless if not entirely naked.  

But you don’t know if Taylor has, so you tug the kitten-soft fabric over your ass before you walk back out into the room.  Taylor is flipping through French television stations, but her finger freezes like ice on the remote when she sees you.  Her teeth split the red tint on her lip, and you smirk, “Like what you see, cupcake?”

“I’m just...you’re a supermodel.  Shouldn’t a CIA agent be a little more _lowkey_?” Taylor asks, and you can feel her eyes mapping out your legs.  You try to act like you don’t notice.  No need to embarrass her already.

There’s a shrug, and you pick up your dump phone, the one that bounces phone towers faster than the media believes Taylor Swift bounces boyfriends.  No messages or phone calls.  “No one is going to question a model travelling all the time.”

“So you’re...well trained, right?  You know how to fight?” Taylor asks, and you do understand her concern.  The mental image of bodyguards isn’t usually 22 year old girls with bright smiles and ribs that show when they stretch.

You flex your arms exaggeratedly.  But it shows off the toned definition of your upper arms, and your face splits into a grin, “I think I can keep you safe.”

Taylor smiles back, but she still looks tense.  You read her file, so you know exactly why she’s scared.  It’s not easy to be comfortable when you witness a black market dealer murdering someone and knowing that they might come after you.  Karlie’s sure Taylor feels like she’s being hunted, and it’s easier to curl up into yourself than it is to face the monster that refuses to stay in the closet.

You grab a pair of shorts and a tank top and slip back behind the bathroom door to trade your towel for slightly less revealing fabric.  Your shirt muffles your mouth slightly as you ask, “They made you leave your phone and laptop behind right?”

“Yeah,” Taylor says, “I didn’t even have music to listen to on the flight here.  It was weird.  I never realized how attached I was to it.”

By now you’ve become used to leaving your phone off in the bottom of your bag or even on your Tribeca kitchen counter.  But 17 year old Karlie had been uncomfortable, wandering as though missing a limb.  You still remember the feeling of disconnect, so you peer around the doorway, offering a sympathetic smile, “Your family knows you’re safe.  I know it’s weird but if anything happens I’ll be able to handle it.”

In fresh close, the exhaustion smothers you, and though it’s only 8 p.m., you’re about ready to go to bed.  Except a problem arises that somehow you hadn’t paid attention to when you entered.

There’s only one bed.

With a sigh, you tug a blanket off the foot of the bed and grab a pillow, and start setting up a bed on the couch.  Taylor’s voice chimes softly, “You don’t have to sleep there.”

“I’ve slept in worse,” You tell her, with another crooked smile, “Don’t you worry, cupcake.”

She looks remorseful, but you settle down and tug the blanket over your body, and she seems to give in.  She tugs down the blankets, then sets about the rhythm of her own nighttime routine.

The lamp clicks off a while later, and you’re barely awake when you hear, “Goodnight, Karlie.”

“Night, Taylor,” You murmur back, and then sleep claims you with hard, gentle hands. 

* * *

 Wakefulness tears open your eyelids far earlier than you’d like, the numbers _6:46_ glaring at you from the face of your watch.  You sigh and stretch out your muscles, trying to untie the knot between your shoulders.  You’re unsuccessful, and you struggle into a bra and a real shirt before you leave Taylor sound asleep with her face made puffy by pillows.  

You check that the door is locked before you head downstairs, the hotel hallways silent this early.  The elevator is actually empty, and even the lobby is decorated with only a few armani-suited businessmen.  You find the continental breakfast, and grab napkins and a couple of paper plates.  Before long, the plates and your arms are loaded up with apples and toast and yogurt and waffles, and you’re impressed that you manage not to drop it all on your venture upstairs.

By the time you manage to swipe the key to get back in the room, it’s going on 7:20.  The smell of food causes Taylor to stir, and she releases a noise that reminds you as a cat as she squirms under the blankets, still clinging to the dream she was having.  

You set a plate stacked high with some of everything on the nightstand next to her, “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.” Taylor blinks at you like she’s not sure if she’s awake or dreaming you up, and it’s actually sort of adorable, “Actually, there aren’t any eggs.  Or bacon.  But there’s a lot of other stuff?”

She fumbles around next to her as she sits up, and a set of black frames slide on to her face, slipping a little bit down her nose.  You’ve never seen her glasses outside of her music videos, and you realize how young and innocent she looks.  For someone who has the entire music industry under her perfect designer heels, she definitely makes it easy to forget that.

“Food is the way into my heart,” Taylor says, a yawn swallowing the end of the sentence.  As though to illustrate her point, she shoves half a piece of toast into her mouth, and you laugh.

You’ve had a few other protection details, one with a neurotic mother and her heinous brat of a son, another with a man who looked at you like some sort of medium-rare steak, so as far as Taylor Swift goes, you’re not complaining.

Especially if the worst thing about her is the fact that she gets apple stuck between her teeth.

* * *

After breakfast, Taylor is once again flipping through channels.  Eventually she pauses on something that reminds you vaguely of What Not To Wear, and her eyebrows slip like a landslide down her face, “I don’t understand any of this.”

“She’s telling her that the patterns clash, and that her earrings are big enough to drive a minivan through,” You translate, focused more on sorting through the cash in the wallet you’d received when bumping into the woman than you are on actually looking at the television.

Your head doesn’t tilt up until you hear the impressed tone woven through Taylor’s voice, “You speak French?”

“I dabble,” You respond, setting the wallet back into your purse.

You end up spending most of the afternoon translating French television for Taylor, and you even end up teaching her a few basic sentences.  Her pronunciation comes with impressive elegance, tongue dancing neatly over syllables, and she seems so excited to be learning that you don’t even mind instructing her. 

* * *

Two days is a long time to be cooped up in a single hotel room, folded up like a shoebox.  So you find a hat and a scarf and once Taylor is dressed, you tuck her hair up into the hat and wrap the scarf carefully to bunch up around her face.  Her clothes are stormcloud grey, nothing that’ll stand out in a crowd, and you step back and decide that she’s subtle and not-Taylor-Swift enough to go outside.

As you roast your own hair with a straightening iron, Taylor sits on the edge of the bathroom countertop and chews colorful snowflakes of polish off her nails, “Are you sure this is safe?”

“I know what I’m doing, and my supervisor gave us permission,” You tell her, curt and confident.  You spread lipgloss over your lips, and then tug a beanie over your ears and grab a pair of large sunglasses for each of you.  A little corny, but good enough, you hope, “And besides, I’d rather risk going outside than sit in this room for two weeks and go batshit insane.”

Taylor’s lips purse in distaste, “Has that really happened?”

“Not that I’ve experienced personally.  But dude, have you ever seen The Shining?” You ask, grinning at her even as you’re bombarded by the week of sleep that stupid movie stole from you at age fourteen.

The shake of Taylor’s head is almost vicious, “I can’t stand scary things.  Why do people enjoy having the shit scared out of them?”

“Adrenaline rush, probably,” You check to make sure the gun is still in your purse, then you turn back to Taylor, adjusting her sunglasses so they don’t sit on her nose like a broken shelf, “There.  You ready to go, cupcake?”

Taylor sighs, but laces her arm through yours when you offer it, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

* * *

Icing the color of roses clusters on Taylor’s upper lip, petals against the corner of her smile.  You’re both nursing vegan cupcakes (bought because of your playful nickname for the girl you’re protecting) with icing in colors that remind you of Easter, crumbs staining your shirts like constellations. You’ve been subtle enough that no one has approached either of you or even given you a second glance, so as the chilly air wraps fingers around you, you’re left to devour your cupcakes and inhale the view of the Eiffel Tower in peace.

“God this is the best cupcake I’ve ever had,” Taylor says, around a mouthful of sugary goodness.  Her hand cups her lips so she doesn’t rudely show you a mouthful of half-chewed cake.

With a lazy flicker of your eyebrows upwards, you retort, “These are like...the definition of a foodgasm.”  To emphasize your point, you take a bite, and let out a noise that you’ve caught yourself making in the bedroom at least a few times.  But it really is that good, and only part of you is doing it to see what reaction you get.

Taylor’s cheeks glow almost as pink as the cupcake frosting, and she shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, “Yeah.  Foodgasm.  Definitely.”  It takes a hell of a lot of strength for you not to laugh.

If you’re a panther, then Taylor Swift is a kitten.

And wouldn’t it be rude of you not to show her how to use her claws and teeth?

* * *

The streetlamps cast golden light over the sidewalks, bleeding into the streets.  A few cars rattle over the roads, and a collection of nighttime tourists and bar hopping university students still meander the streets.  You and Taylor both are filled up with so many pastries and a giant dinner that leaves you both feeling like you’re splitting open at your seams.  

Taylor is attempting to translate a street sign using some of the vocabulary you taught her earlier when you happen to glance over your shoulder, as you have been doing periodically.  But this time, something catches your eye.  Something off.  A man in suit trousers and a dark button down shirt, his hair slicked back.  You don’t meet his eyes, but you can feel him staring at you and the girl next to you.

Casually, you reach for Taylor’s hand, leaning into her so your body fits against hers with a lover’s precision.  You lean your head in next to her, and it seems like a personification of the city of romance to anyone who’s unaware.

But instead your lips graze Taylor’s ear, and you speak gently but firmly, “We’re going to turn into this alleyway, and then we’re going to run until I tell you it’s safe.”

“What’s going on?” Taylor asks, voice stretched with panic.

You shake your head, a silent promise to explain later, and then shuffle her into the broken tooth gap between buildings.

Your hand clutches hers tightly as you run, and her legs aren’t as long as yours so you’re left halfway dragging her.  But she tries her hardest, feet punching the pavement with the pace of her breathing, and after a few sharp turns you shift back into the main street, slowing into a brisk walk.  You pull Taylor through a crowd, around another corner, and then across the street where the lights are dimmer.

After a few moments of looking around, you see no one and nothing out of place, so you allow yourself to speak over the gashes of both of your heavy breathing, “Possible tail.  I’m not positive, but he looked sketchy as hell and I wasn’t going to take a chance.”

“Jesus christ,” Taylor mumbles, reaching up with her left hand to tuck her sweaty bangs back into her hat.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, you offer her a cocky grin on a silver platter, “Told you I could keep you safe.”

You didn’t miss the strange man watching you.  You don’t miss much with a job like this.

So you definitely notice the way Taylor doesn’t release your hand until you’re back in the lobby of the hotel. 

* * *

 You get back to the hotel, call Glass to let him know the situation, and 15 minutes later you’re receiving “room service”: a tray of fruits and veggies, with new hotel reservations slipped under the curve of a banana.

It doesn’t take long for you and Taylor to pack everything up, and as you hand her her duffel bag, you realize her hand is shaking.  You set down your things, and rest your hands on her upper arms, forcing her to look at you, “I am _going_ to keep you safe.  Do you trust me?”

“Yes.  I do,” It makes you feel warm in a weird, summery sort of way that Taylor doesn’t hesitate, but you don’t have time to dwell on that.

Instead, you squeeze her arms gently, and give her a bright smile, “Good.  Then you’re going to be just fine.”

Taylor smiles back, and it looks like she’s been punched in the mouth.  But it’s as good as you’re going to get right now.

You pull your hair back into a neat ponytail, gather up your things, and silently offer her your hand.

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

 The radio is silent, and so are the streets.  It’s broaching on 2 a.m., and you’re grateful for the way the streetlamps watch over you like guards, grateful for the streets spanning empty like a cape behind you.  No tails.  No other cars.

You’ve left Paris behind for the suburbs, the bustling city no longer safe, infested with what you’re running from.  Taylor stares silently at the window, and you wonder how much she knows about the wolves you’re running from.

“Did they tell you?  Who he is?” You ask, and your voice sounds like a grenade in the quiet.

Taylor jumps, just slightly, and doesn’t turn to face you, “Not really.  I mean, I know he’s like...a gangster or something.”

“Angelo D’antonio.  Black market weapons dealer.  Occasionally cocaine, too.  Cliche as hell Italian.  His crew is small, thankfully.  There are only ten of them.  But they’re ruthless, and they have some of the most horrific torture methods the CIA has come across.  I don’t have clearance to know what those are though,” You say, keeping the words matter of fact.  Because this is Taylor’s life like a rabbit in your palms, and she deserves honesty.  A sigh bleeds between your lips, “You witnessed a murder committed by his second in command.  Valentino Fierro.  They’re after you because you gave a lead where they were.  The CIA has already caught three of them, and they’re trying to get information on where to find the others.”

Taylor swallows, and out of the corner of your eye you can see the muscles in her throat quiver, “So...how long will I have to hide?  I have tour dates I have to reschedule as soon as possible.”

“Until they’re all dead or under CIA control, you won’t be safe.  It could be three more days, could be three more years,” You know what it must feel like for her to hear those words, and you personally feel as though you’re taking Taylor Swift and breaking all of her ribs into dust between her fingers.  Especially when she sort of collapses in on herself.

You turn on the radio, hoping to fill the gaps between you,

Thankfully, the song is one that Taylor knows, and you feel a lot better when she starts to sing along.

* * *

 The place you’re staying at now isn’t even a hotel.  It’s a cottage, with stone walls and a garden.  The driveway is long and made of gravel, and you pull around and park at the back of the house so the car can’t be seen.  As soon as the car is stopped, Taylor is moving to get out and help you with the bags, and you at least appreciate that she’s not just cowering and crying and expecting you to do everything.

Inside, the floors are made of stone.  The living room is sparsely decorated, with a couch and one other chair.  It spills into a kitchen, the walls yellow, scales of the color peeling to reveal white.  The countertops are dark granite, wearing a cloak of dust but otherwise not too bad.  There’s a tiny breakfast nook overlooking the garden, and then a set of stairs.

Immediately, you set to work locking the windows and closing the shutters, and Taylor catches on and helps with the last few.  You jiggle the front doorknob hard, and when the lock holds, you lift your arms and twirl delicately on your toes, “Your castle, my princess.”

“Princess?  Hell no.  Baby, I’m your queen,” Taylor shoots back, and firework laughter cracks from your throat as you simultaneously make your way upstairs.  There are two bedrooms here, each with an attached bathroom.  One has walls painted in a way that reminds you of the beach you used to visit with your family, and the other is lavender and smells like sugar.

You step back, and somehow you aren’t surprised at all when Taylor steps towards the blue bedroom.  You start to turn and leave your bags on the other bed, when a hand catches your arm, fingers pressing into your skin so hard you can feel the bones, “This is going to sound totally stupid, and it’s okay if you think I’m actually like...five years old, but could we share a room?”

That’s new.  You’ve never been asked that before.

But you’re not an idiot, and you’re not an asshole.  So you’re also not going to turn her down and cause her to make that broken mudslide of a face you saw in candid pictures back in late 2012.  

And Taylor is absolutely stunning, so you’re not going to turn that down, either.

“Okay,” you smile, and allow her to lead the way, hoping you won’t regret this.

* * *

 As she sleeps, Taylor’s arms wrap around you, pulling you in close to the warm heat of her ins and outs.

 And you’re left staring at the ceiling, your thoughts echoing in your head over and over.

_Not this.  Not her.  Not this._

* * *

The next two days pass in a way you’ve never experienced or expected from protection detail.  Usually, it’s basically babysitting, minus fingerpaint and snacktime.  But with Taylor, it’s something new.  You find an old game of Scrabble in a closet, and you spend hours playing games.  She beats you, every time, and after about the fourth game, both of you start covering the board with every inappropriate word you can think of, and you’re actually a little impressed with the range of her vocabulary.

You don’t miss the way you both become a little more casual, a little more fleeting.  Her hands occasionally graze your wrists with touches made of feathers, and once or twice she’s leaned her head into the curve of your shoulder and you’ve relaxed your arm behind her back.

The ingredients in the kitchen are sparse, but together you find a way to make food, and as you perch yourselves on the kitchen countertops, Taylor fills the house with her voice.

You tell her Love Story is your favorite, and she falls into it almost before you finish the sentence.  

Her blue eyes find yours as she hits the last chorus, and god, you’d give anything to drown in those perfect oceans.

* * *

 “Truth or dare?” Taylor asks, stretching out on the couch and resting her feet on your bare lap.

Six days since protection detail started, four in this house.  And every passing hour, every ticking minute, every throbbing second makes you forget more and more that there are monsters outside of these doors.  Even your occasional correspondence with Glass (five out of ten gone; three dead, two in custody) only seems to snap you back into the mechanical mindset of a secret agent temporarily.

And that’s why you’re four turns into a game of truth or dare, a little bit high from the too-strong aroma of an air freshener you’d plugged in in an attempt to suffocate the scent of mothballs.

“Truth,” You hum, and your hand grips one one of Taylor’s feet, thumb massaging a ball of tension from the arch of it.  A small noise escapes Taylor’s mouth that seems almost lascivious, and you repeat the motion in a subtle attempt to tie a rope around that sound and pull it out again.

_Dear God, Kloss, what the fuck have you gotten yourself into?_

Taylor chews on the edge of her thumb for a moment, then asked, “Riskiest thing you’ve ever done?”

You pause, debate making something up, or plucking from your memory one of the slightly less risky stories.  But instead you just give in, “I fucked someone in the photobooth at my high school prom.  One of the chaperones was standing right next to it.”

“Damn.  I was expecting some CIA drama.  Not _that_.  Was he hot?” Taylor asks, her eyes wide, and you aren’t sure what emotion it is that’s leaking into them.

You press your thumb into the quickly-unwinding knot in Taylor’s foot once more, and as she breathes out, you murmur, “She was gorgeous.”

A pause, a bark of laughter, and then, “Shit, Karlie.”

You grin, not even a little sheepish, “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Taylor replies, and you know she hasn’t said ‘dare’ in fear of moving, especially since your hands have shifted to massage her other foot.  

You take your time, allow her to assume you’re thinking even though you know exactly what you plan to ask.  You feel the tension release almost like popping a balloon, so you move up, pushing up her pajama pants so you can work your fingers against the sinew under the skin of her calves.

“So, tell me, has America’s Sweetheart really never been attracted to another girl?” You press your fingers in particularly hard at that, and there it is.  Another one of those sounds.

_You’re going to hell for this, Karlie._

Taylor’s eyes flutter closed, and she breathes in and out deeply, rolling her leg into your touch, “I actually had a thing with Dianna Agron.”

“Really?” You ask, undeniably impressed, “I had a crush on her back when Glee was popular.  I had a poster on my wall of Quinn and Brittany and Santana.”  

Taylor’s eyes don’t open, and her breath hitches as you find the other leg, not even caring that your hands are beginning to ache deep in the tissue with exhaustion, “We didn’t work out.  It was pretty messy.  But I saw her not too long ago, and we’re not on horrible terms or anything.”

She finally opens her eyes again, but they stare at the popcorn ceiling rather than your face, “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” You respond, feeling a little bold.

Taylor swallows thickly, the sound audible even to you, “I have a knot in my neck.  I dare you to massage it for me.”

“You’re just using me.  I see how it is,” You murmur, but it’s good natured.  You rise to your feet, and walk over to settle on your knees, leaning against the armrest of the couch.  Taylor sits up, and your fingers start kneading into her neck.

It’s strange, to be touching her neck like this.  Necks have always been so intimate for you.  Hands can choke, teeth can tear into.  Yet here Taylor is, in hiding from terrifying creatures in human skins, trusting you to dig your fingers in and free her of tension you’re sure must be painful.

You don’t talk for a long time.  You work at her neck, and then slide up to the place where her jaw connects.  You focus on that for a moment, then map out the skin behind her ears.  Each new spot draws a new kind of breath from her throat.  

Sighs, gasps, broken little puffs.  

Your hands dip into her hair, and you take capture of her scalp, massaging and scratching gently, knowing a surprising amount of tension can be carried under her hair.  She’s basically melted ice cream under your touches when you finally lean in close, your lips nearly grazing her ear, “Truth or dare, cupcake?”

“Dare,” Taylor breathes out, and you can hear the shakiness in it.

You smile, and it’s predatory.  Like a panther.  This time it really does touch the shell of her ear, and you feel her quiver, “I dare you to let me kiss you.”

Taylor gasps, a rattling sort of sound that you can almost see.  But she nods her head.  So your hand slips around her jaw, tilting her face towards you.  And then you lean in, your lips finding hers, soft and warm and tasting of mint toothpaste.  One of her hands grips your wrist, and the other tangles in your hair.

It’s a beautiful melody, mouths connecting and disconnecting, occasionally parting just enough to catch hold of a breath.  Taylor’s body shifts on the couch, and it pulls you in closer.  Your knees tingle with an onset of numbness, but you don’t even mind.

You can’t even bring yourself to care about anything except the way you think you can hear Taylor occasionally whimpering chord progressions against your tongue.

And that’s when you know you’re in too deep to get out.

* * *

Taylor is in the shower the next morning when your phone rings.  You shake off the feeling of Taylor’s kisses, of the fact you’d spent all night with lips exploring mouths and necks.  And when you answer, you sound perfectly professional, “Panther.”

“One more down.  But the last four are Angelo and his three closest friends.  And I’m sure they’re getting pretty fuckin’ pissed at us.  Watch your six, Panther.  Don’t ever think you’re safe,” Glass’ voice sounds, ironically, like broken glass, and you murmur an affirmative.  He hangs up without a goodbye, and you tuck your phone back into your bag.

Taylor appears from the bathroom in a cough of steam, hair in a towel, body in nothing but a tank top and a pair of lacy blue underwear.  Your lips purse, and for a few seconds, you lose the ability to speak.  But it comes after you manage to look at Taylor’s face instead of her legs, “One more gone.  It’s just the last four now.”

You see Taylor’s shoulders relax, and you don’t have the heart to tell her that there’s a good chance you’re still far from safe.  Some secrets are best left untold, you decide.

Taylor makes an overdramatic show of bending over to pick up her clothing for the day, and you silently promise yourself to slap every journalist who has ever claimed Taylor Swift doesn’t have a _magnificent_ ass.

* * *

In a movie, it would strike you as hilarious how quickly Glass’ warning comes to fruition.  But this isn’t a movie, and when glass shatters downstairs at 3 in the morning, you jolt awake in bed.  Taylor is forced upwards by you sitting up, and her hair falls in her face as her eyes find yours, “Karlie?”

“Shh.  Under the bed.  Hide there.  Don’t come out no matter what you hear, okay?” You tell her, your voice soft but firm.

Her panic spills over into tears, her hands clutching at you like a net, and you hate yourself for batting them away.  You climb out of bed, and go for your bag, finding the gun, thumbing down the safety.  You glance over your shoulder, see Taylor sliding beneath the bedframe, and you slip quietly around the corner.

The house is dark, and you walk silently in bare feet, squinting, using the silver glow of moonlight to guide your footsteps.  You stop at the top of the stairs, and you listen.

Feet thump downstairs, a single set of them, and you freeze, your breath turning to ice in your throat.  You want to keep your vantage point, but you know that if they stay downstairs, they’re further away from Taylor, and that’s your goal here.  That’s all you want to do.

You creep down the stairs, avoiding the fourth one which you remember creaks.  There’s a light on in the kitchen, and you stop just out of reach of it.  Your eyes find him in the living room, gun in hand, studying his phone in a way that makes you nervous, your body still milky with sleep.

But your hand is steady.  To get a clear shot, you have to move closer, and you take two more steps down, as silent as possible.  The light catches your skin, casts a shadow, and the instant you aim and fire, the man in the kitchen notices you, and as he dodges, the bullet only hits his thigh.

Fuckity fuck fuck you think, scrabbling out of the way.  There’s not enough protection, so using the advantage of long legs, you dive behind the couch, popping up over the top of it to fire off another shot into the kitchen.  This one lands in the left side of his chest, a burst of heat and shrapnel.  You don’t see if he falls because you’re ducking back behind the couch, trying to avoid taking a bullet into your own skin.  It’s happened twice, and it’s an experience you’d rather not repeat.

This is your first assignment that’s more than just abusive exes or crazy 20 year old street kids.  You realize harshly that you’ve relaxed too much.  Because you’re a fucking idiot.  No wonder none of the CIA agents you know have significant others.  Too much to take away your focus.

_God fucking dammit Karlie you fucking idiot.  They told you to take this job seriously you stupid fuck._

You suck in a breath, and you pop up again.  And a realization hits you like an anvil.  He’s crawling, and the only blood you can see is oozing from his thigh and smearing across the floor.  None from the wound to his chest.

_Bulletproof vest.  How could you be so **stupid**?_

In your broken guard, he swings for you, and his gun connects with your jaw.  It’s hard enough to make you see stars, drop your Glock and send it skittering, but you grip his wrist with both hands, twist hard, feel a bone snap so the gun clatters to the floor.  His cry tears through you, and you shake off the dizziness, the pounding ache in the side of your face.  You reach desperately and pull his gun into your hands.

His eyes meet yours, and they look black, soulless.  Ink spilled out to stain the whites around his irises.  You gasp, pull the trigger, and plant a bullet like a tulip between his eyes.  

His body collapses with a thud, and it’s in that moment that you realize the door to the garden is wide open.  It hadn’t been when you’d been on the stairs, and panic punches you so hard in the gut you taste blood in your mouth that isn’t just from your split lip.

“Taylor!” You cry out, the second you hear a scream from upstairs.  

There are three sharp pops, deafening, making your ears ring.

You scramble to your feet, nearly slipping on a slick pool of blood.  Your head spins, cheek throbbing, fireworks crackling behind your eyes, and you barely manage not to fall.  You pound up the stairs, gun raised, ready to put about seventeen bullets into the head of whoever caused that scream.

And then you see the body.  

Sprawled on the floor, a sea of red rolling in lazy waves around them.  There’s no breath, no heartbeat.  You don’t even have to check to know that.

Your mouth tastes like old pennies.  

You turn him over, and in a motion of cruelty, one you never would have thought yourself capable of, you stomp your heel down into his windpipe, ensuring he won’t rise to do any more damage.

Taylor is cowering against the bed, a gun shaking like a bird in her hands.  You fall to her knees in front of her, worshipping her, worshipping whatever god didn’t take you from her.  Your hands cup her face, and she flinches, breathing in sharp as though she doesn’t know who you are.

“Taylor, it’s okay.  They’re dead.  Honey, where did you get this gun?” You ask, your voice soft, gentle.

A pale hand lifts, pointing towards the open bedside drawer.  No words escape her lips because she’s pressing them too hard together.  You gently pull the weapon from her hands, turn the safety on, and tuck it into your purse.  You grab the one from the man on the floor as well, and then you stuff a mass of Taylor’s clothes into your bag, grab it with one hand, and pull her to her feet with your other.

She stumbles after you like her legs are made of gelatin, and as you slam the car into drive and peel out of the driveway, all you can do is murmur apologies like prayers, begging your goddess to believe them.

* * *

After ten minutes on the phone whispering aggressively back and forth with Glass, you’re given a new address, and you toss your phone into the cup holder.  Taylor flinches, and you bite your lip, regretful that you’ve startled her, and also regretful of the fact it causes it to fill your mouth with blood again.

“I’m sorry.  I should have...I shouldn’t have just...assumed there was only one,” You feel so guilty, and you wonder why they even decided to throw you into this.  There are better trained operatives for handling black market dealers.  You’ve been trained for domestic disputes, for people with guns who were taught how to shoot by their fathers and not criminals.

Maybe it’s some sort of sabotage.  Maybe they think more of you than they should.  But either way, you’ve gone and fucked up, and it’s only by luck that Taylor is even still alive.

She doesn’t respond to your apology, doesn’t even look up from her pale hands quivering in her lap.  You want to reach for her, but you can’t do that right now.  You don’t really deserve touching her right now.  So you stare ahead of you, biting into your lip and your cheek to make them hurt even worse, and eventually countryside bleeds into homes and small businesses.  You stop at a hotel, walk in, and pay for your room with a credit card.  The girl at the desk looks like the embodiment of four a.m., so when you explain you’ll be back in a moment, she gives a grunt in acknowledgement.

You get back in the car, start it again, and repeat the process at the next two hotels you find.

Finally, you stop at the nicest hotel you’ve come upon on the drive.  This time, when you pay, it’s with a handful of cash.  You wrap your arm around Taylor’s waist, and you practically have to carry her inside because she’s so out of it, floating like a ghost beside you.

The hotel room is a penthouse suite, and though the hotel isn’t massive enough to be considered high class, there are two bedrooms and a living area.  You set the bag on one of the beds, then gather your clothes and move them to the other room.

You can’t afford to get distracted anymore.  You can’t allow yourself to sleep in Taylor’s arms.

You fold your clothes, set them neatly on the desk in the corner, deciding it’s best to give Taylor space.  When you walk back into the main part of the room, you’re hit by the sound of the shower, louder than it should be.  You slip around the corner, and find to the door open, a yawning mouth choking out steam.

It feels wrong to look into the room, like you’re reading someone’s diary.  You remember finding Kimby’s when you were thirteen, and reading all of two pages before you slammed it shut, face hot with guilt.  But you’re worried about Taylor.

There’s nothing inappropriate to see, because when you step into the bathroom, Taylor is sitting in the glass cubical, still fully dressed, the showerhead beating down on her back as she clutches at her knees.  She looks like a child, and you think she might be crying even though the water from the shower smears across her face.

You open the door of the shower, splattering the bathroom floor with water.  Taylor doesn’t move, and you don’t bother stripping out of your own clothes as you step inside and close the shower again.  Immediately, your feet ache as water splatters against them, absolutely scorching your skin.  You realize Taylor’s skin is bright red, and you reach for the faucet and turn it to a temperature that’s hot but won’t burn you alive.

Then you sit down next to her, not quite touching, your breath carving through the steam.  The heat makes the bruise on your face throb slowly.

After a long moment, Taylor whispers, “I killed someone.”

You recognize a constellation of emotions in her voice, shaped like guilt and fear.  You take a risk, wrapping an arm around her.  And Taylor leans in, body slumping into yours.  You squeeze a little tighter, adjusting so her head can rest against your chest.

“It was you or him, Tay.  And I’m glad it wasn’t you,” You keep your voice soft, trying to be soothing.  Your hand runs up and down her back, sticking to the soaked fabric of her shirt.

Taylor shudders against you but doesn’t speak, and you lean down and kiss the top of her head, nose pressing into her hair, “It’s not going to happen again.  They’re not even going to get close to you again.”

You don’t promise.  You’re afraid to promise.  But you mean it as much as you can.  

The sobs start quiet, but before long Taylor is crying so hard against your chest you’re afraid for her vocal chords.  But you just rub her back and tangle your fingers in her hair and hold her against you tight, determined to make her feel as safe as possible.

Over and over, you whisper ‘ _It’s okay.  You’re okay_.'

God, do you hope it’s true.

* * *

You fail to keep your promise to yourself, and Taylor spends the small portion remaining of the night in your arms, trembling with nightmares.  You don’t sleep at all, too focused on soothing her every time she stirs.

It’s nearly 10 a.m. when she wakes.  You’re facing her, and her blue eyes open, cloudy with sleep.  Your hand reaches out, fingers brushing her cheek and trailing into her hair, “Good morning, cupcake.”

“You didn’t sleep,” Taylor murmurs, a thumb reaching out to run along the shadow under one of your eyes, above the gunmetal bruise.  You smile ruefully but don’t respond out loud, and there’s a pause before she leans in.  Her lips press against yours, just briefly, careful of the split in the bottom one.  And you pull her in closer to your body.  She rests her forehead against yours, filling the paper cages of her lungs in a way you know means she’s going to ask something important.  And just as you predict, it comes out like a bruise, “Will I get to go home soon?”

It would be easy to lie, but Taylor has suffered so much the past few days, so you nudge your nose against hers and, with gentle honesty, whisper, “I don’t know.  But Glass will let me know as soon as it’s safe for you to go back to your queen of pop life.”

“Will I see you again after everything is safe?” Taylor asks, her eyes closed, her breath spilling across your face.

You swallow thickly, knowing that won’t be safe, or a decision the CIA would support.  You know you can’t be with her after all of this, can’t see if you can make it work under more normal circumstances.

But you want to, and that’s the problem.

No audible answer comes, because you don’t have one, or maybe just don’t have the heart to speak it.  Instead you just kiss her and hope that she finds solace in it.

* * *

The hotel has an attached restaurant, and you and Taylor bundle up in similar disguises as last time so you can actually experience something that isn’t just the hotel room for the first time in three days.  All you’ve done is watch TV and curl up together, telling each other stories about your lives like you’ve been dating for months and not just sharing kisses for a few days.

Taylor tells you about pressure, about how her mother broke her bones so she could snap them into place the way she wanted them, forming the perfect child.  And in return you tell her about your first CIA mission, how a drunken ex-husband pinned you by your throat and you almost died before your trainer could get to you.

Her lips had spent the next twenty minutes covering your neck as though she could still see the 5-year-old bruises, and as you settle at a table close to the door but far from the window, you can still feel the kisses burning your skin.

She lets you order food for you both, claiming you’re more familiar with french cuisine, and the fact she trusts you with something like that makes you smile, because you still feel stupid for what almost happened, and the bruise on your face still aches with the feeling of it.

So when it finally arrives, you watch with strong curiosity as Taylor digs in her fork and takes a mouthful.  Around the food, she says, “‘his ‘s so ‘ood.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.  God.  What are you?  An ape?” You tease her, and she kicks you in the shin under the table.

You take your time, and you laugh over a glass of wine.

And for a couple of hours, you forget the circumstances why you’re together in the first place.

* * *

The wine has worn off by the time you’re back in the hotel room, but it’s easier to blame what you’re doing on that than it is on your own reckless decisions.  

Taylor is pinned underneath you, your knees on either side of her thighs, her wrists soft under your hands.  You think of the way you’d snapped the intruder’s wrist just a few days before, and realize how much easier it would be to just take the bones beneath your hands and crush them.  But you’re not here to hurt.  You’re here to make her feel safe.

Your lips drink in the sugary taste of Taylor’s mouth like you’ve never needed anything else, and maybe you haven’t and you’ve just been missing out for 22 years.  She sighs against your tongue and you love it, consider suggesting she make an entire album just of those little noises.

You shift your grip, so one hand captures both of her thin wrists, and your other slips under her shirt, pushing it up her stomach.  Your head dips, finding the front of her throat.  You kiss it and nip at it, and her head tilts back with a soft whine, baring more skin to your mouth.  You’re hungry for her and the way her skin somehow tastes like vanilla.

Right under her jaw, you leave a mark.  It’s reddish purple and in the shape of your teeth, and Taylor makes a noise like a mewl.

You release her wrists, but not before pushing them firmly against the mattress, “Keep these here.”  She responds with a profuse nod of her head, and your hands work the buttons of the front of her shirt, all of your years of modeling keeping your hands from slipping.  

The fabric pools like the sea along her ribcage, and immediately you’re outlining her sternum, tasting her ribs.  Your lips brush the satin of the cups of her bra, but you don’t push it out of the way, even as her back bows upwards into you.  

You want to take your time.  You want to give her as long as possible to not have to think.

After her chest and her ribs shine with a constellation of marks from your mouth, you slip a hand easily under her back and flick open the hook of her bra.  In all of two seconds, the material is pushed up practically around her throat, and your mouth greedily explores the new territory.  You feel her wrists lift up from the mattress, but she immediately plants them back down, and you purr around the nipple you’ve taken into your mouth.

That makes her squeak, and you kind of really want to hear that sound again.  So you hum around the tender flesh again, and out comes another high pitched noise.  Once it’s pebbled under your tongue, you release it with a soft pop, and you grin up at her.  But she doesn’t see, head tilted back, blue eyes closed.  It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

You pepper her stomach with kisses, feeling muscles twitch.  For a popstar, she’s extremely toned, and you like how you can feel her tense when your teeth occasionally graze against her skin.  Your thumbs trail along her sides, causing goosebumps to prickle to the surface of her skin.

Once she’s sighing consistently, you hook your fingers in her skirt and tug it down her legs.  You have to slide off the bed to pull it down her legs completely, but immediately, you’re right back here you were.  Except this time, you nestle your mouth into the bowls of her hips, carved so perfectly you wonder if you could plant a garden in them.

This time, each kiss makes her gasp, and the closer you get to the lacy hem of her underwear, the more she twitches.  You can smell her and feel her and hear her, and something about that pulls primal instinct out of you, and all you want is for Taylor Swift to be shaking underneath you.  Because of you.

You start at her knees, nipping the insides then using your tongue to sooth the sting.  But you’ve never exactly been patient, so it’s not long before you’re climbing her thighs, her voice growing more whimpery the closer you get to where she needs you most.  

But you make sure to pay the same amount of attention to each leg before you finally give her something that she wants.  Your nose nuzzles against her through the fabric, and you can feel how wet it is.  She arcs her hips up into you, and you pull back.  You glance upwards, and her hands have knotted into the sheets above her head to keep them from disobeying you.

You find yourself impressed, so you pull her underwear away from heated flesh, and it ends up thrown somewhere across the room.  When your tongue first trails along the place where inner thigh moulds into soft folds, she jerks so hard it nearly knocks you backwards, so you slide your arms under her thighs and press your hands against her hips to hold them still.

It’s entirely playful, lips barely brushing her, barely tasting her.  She trembles and twitches, and you know she’s growing desperate more and more with each touch that you force her to wait through.  Your teeth nip far up her inner thigh, and against her skin, you murmur, “Say please, cupcake.”

You expect hesitation, but instead you get pure need, “Please, Karlie.  Fuck.   _Please_.”

“Good girl,” You can’t help but purr.

And then you do exactly as she wants.  You find all of the right places, the ones that make her thighs shudder and clench around your head.  You’ve eaten out more girls than you can count, but something about Taylor is different, and you want _more_.  You want to give her the absolute best you can.

You take her in like you’re drowning and she’s oxygen, like she’s the only solace in the desert.  You map out all of her sounds, memorize the way she moans your name and mewls prayers to god and jesus and everyone else.  Your eyes tilt upwards to watch her, and she’s arching upwards even as her head thrashes back and forth, hands scrabbling at the sheets where you left them.

She looks like she’s desperate not to float off the mattress, and you want her even closer anyway.  So you speak against her tender, heated flesh, “You can move your hands.”

And in an instant, fingers tangle into your hair, pressing you almost suffocatingly against her.  You don’t mind.  Not one bit.  Your tongue moves against her and drinks her in and she holds on to you like a lifeline.  Her thighs shake against you, her hips fighting against your hands pinning them down.  You’re just amazed at the sight and feeling of her coming undone, all of her threads unstitching.

Your tongue flattens against her clit, and then you pull back as much as her death grip will allow, “Taylor, I want you to look at me.”

Blue eyes open slowly, dazed, but they shift downwards to meet yours.  You don’t look away, even as you dip your head again.  You watch the way the blue ocean grows almost black as you wrap your mouth around sensitive flesh, her lips parting so your name can fall out of her mouth, over and over.

You know she’s close when her thighs close almost painfully against your temples, and her nails dig into your scalp.  So you shift your hands under her hips, lifting them upwards, and the change in angle is all she needs to fall apart around you.

She cries out your name so loudly you’re worried you’ll be receiving noise complaints, her entire body shuddering violently.

Fuck concerts.  Fuck award shows.  Fuck magazine shoots.

_This_ is the most beautiful you’ve ever seen Taylor Swift.

She comes apart, and you don’t stop, the carnal desires in your chest burning at your ribs.  So when her trembling slows, you keep going, and before long, she’s tumbling over the edge again.  It’s not as intense this time, but it’s still beautiful, and her eyes never leave yours even as hurricanes and tornadoes and thunderstorms roar through them.

When she comes down from her high, gasping ragged lungfuls of air, she gently pushes your head away, “No more.  Please.”

You pull away from sensitive flesh with a bright grin, and Taylor smiles shakily back, practically glowing.

You hate yourself for how much you want to distract her from the bad things like this as much as you possibly can.

* * *

You wake up to Taylor’s fingers barely dipping past the waistband of your pajama pants, the words _can I?_ quiet on her lips.  You close your eyes and tell her yes.

It turns out to be the most beautiful mistake you’ve ever made.

* * *

The next couple of days are spent in lovers’ bliss, constant touches, skin bare of anything except marks from each others’ mouths and fingernails.  Taylor sleeps with her head against your chest, one of your hands tangled in her hair, the other protecting the curve of her spine.

You have three fingers inside of her when your phone rings, and you don’t stop (much to Taylor’s horror) even as you lift it to your ear, “Hello?”

“Panther, Valentino is dead.  As of around 2 hours ago,” It’s Glass, and like usual, he doesn’t even bother with a greeting.  Internally you roll your eyes, even as your thumb grazes Taylor’s clit.  She bites down on her lip hard.

You smile at her nonchalantly, tilting the phone closer to your mouth, “That’s great!  Any sign of Angelo?”

“None.  Bastard knows how to cover his tracks,” Glass says.  It sounds more like a growl, staticy through the shitty receiver of the dump phone.

There’s a soft sigh, and you wonder if it’ll ever be safe.  You kind of hope that they never catch Angelo, that you’re on this protection detail forever.  So you can spend everyday with fingers buried up to the knuckle in the warm heat of the girl next to you, watching her shudder with the effort of not making a sound.

“Think he knows where we are?” Karlie asks, twisting her wrist.  Taylor gasps in a breath, then quickly clamps a hand over her own mouth.

Glass grunts.  It reminds you of a gorilla at the zoo.  Your sisters always used to like looking at them, “Don’t let your guard down.”

“Yes s--” You start, but the line goes dead, and you really do roll your eyes.  It’s almost cliche how rude he is, and if he wasn’t your superior you’d probably have punched him in the throat by now.

But there are more important things to worry about now.  Your fingers press deep into Taylor again, and you smile at her, “One left to get rid of.  Now, where were we?”

* * *

 The news is playing on the tv in French, with enough English thrown in occasionally for you both to be able to interpret it.  There’s nothing exciting to see, and you’re halfway to falling asleep with you hear the name _Taylor Swift_.

Immediately, you both sit up.  On the screen is an extremely blurry photo from the first night out you’d taken, outside of the window peering in.  It looks like it was taken on a flip phone, and you hardly recognize your own face.  The news report plays something about how Swift and her ‘mystery girl’ had seemed very flirty, and you want to jump through the tv when they joke about how maybe she’s ‘giving up on men.’

You turn to face her, and Taylor is watching with her mouth slightly open.  Her eyes narrow first at the screen, then focus on you, “I thought you said we wouldn’t be recognized.”

“I didn’t think we would.  Don’t tell me you saw any paparazzi, or even any fans that day.   _No one_ noticed us.  Glass even gave me permission to take you out to dinner,” You reply, trying to sound calm but instead coming off as defensive.

“No one noticed us... _except_ this person,” Taylor snarls, “So I’ve disappeared off the face of the earth for a month, and now I’m having a flirtatious dinner in Paris with a woman.  If they’ve picked it up here, do you realize how quickly this shit must be spreading in the US?”

You swallow, thickly, and reach for her, “Taylor, your publicist will handle it.”

“It’s kind of hard for her to handle it when I’m not there to give her a fucking explanation,” Taylor snaps back, yanking herself away from you.  

She storms out of the bedroom and into the living area, and when the door slams it shakes you down to your bones.

* * *

You give her 20 minutes, and then you walk over to the other door and knock gently, “Tay?”

You don’t hear a response except an almost frantic scramble inside, and you’re concerned enough to open the door.  It’s locked though, of course, so you grab your purse from the other room, pluck out a bobby pin, and in about twenty seconds the lock clicks, and you push the door open.

Taylor is standing in front of the bed, her eyes wide.  She looks extremely guilty, and you take her in with cold eyes, definitely not comfortable with the expression on her face, “What’s going on in here?”

“Nothing,” Taylor replies, trying to maintain the same sharp, angry tone as earlier.  You roll your eyes, and gently push her out of the way.

She tries to scramble for you, but you pat around on the bed and, tucked under the edge of the sheet, you find something hard.  You pull it out, and find a cat sticker-covered phone.  Turned on.  Buzzing with a list of new messages from someone named Tree.

You whip around, holding it up, “What the fuck is this?  Have you had this the whole time?”

“It’s been off,” Taylor replies, sheepishly, “Until about twenty minutes ago.”

In response, you throw it hard at the wall.  It breaks, basically into smithereens, and Taylor stares at you in stunned silence before she shrieks, “What the _fuck_?”

“Your sim card is still fine,” You tell her, picking it up, “Just put it in a new phone and you'll have all of your contacts and pictures.  But what the fuck?  I thought you said you didn’t bring your phone!”

Taylor is trembling, staring at her phone in shock, “It’s been _off_.”

“That doesn’t mean shit!  They can still find it,” You practically shout at her, “That’s how they keep finding _us_ , you idiot.”

Taylor flinches at your tone, her eyes wide, face pale, “I thought it had to be on...”

“Yeah, well you’re stupid,” You reply.  

The sim card set safely aside, you take the heel of your shoe and grind it into everything else, crushing the hardware.  And with that, you turn to face her and give her a dark, huntress glare, “Go pack your shit.  We need to get out of here.”

* * *

You’re about ready to pull Taylor out the door when the hotel phone rings.  You pause, debate not answering it, but you walk over anyway, lifting it up to your cheek and greeting the caller in French.

“Miss Kloss, you ate at the hotel restaurant a couple of days ago, and charged the bill to your room.  However, there’s been an issue with your receipt.  Could you come downstairs to the desk and remind us what you ordered?” The thick accent of the concierge reaches you, and with a smile in your voice you promise to be downstairs soon.

But in an instant you’re dropping your things on the floor.  You dig out both guns, handing one to Taylor and tucking another into the waistband of your jeans, “He knows we’re here.”

“How do you know what?” Taylor asks, face blanching.

You look around for an escape plan, “They called me _Miss Kloss_.  That’s not the name I checked in with.”

“Shit,” Taylor whispers, and your mind hums back _my sentiments exactly._

You don’t bother grabbing anything except the guns.  You’d snatched silencers from the calamity back at the house, and you make sure they’re attached properly before you grip Taylor’s wrist tightly, “Come on.  Leave the stuff.  We don’t have time.”

The door is yanked open, and you glance both ways down the hallway.  Silent, empty.  So you find the sign pointing towards the stairwell, one hand on your gun, the other on Taylor’s arm.

It’s not even fast walking.  It’s running, using your legs as an advantage to take two stairs at a time.  You’re still furious that the fact they keep finding you, the way your face is still bruised, all of that is her fault.  But you still have a job to protect her, and the sound of her gasping your name in desperation is still clear in your head.

You pass the stairs for the third floor when, two floors above you, you hear the door you came through open, followed by rapid footsteps.  And you know he must have gone up to your room and found it empty and taken the obvious way after you.  

For her part, Taylor is keeping up pretty well, her shoes (a pair of your converse) slapping against the steps.  You burst out the door into the lobby, and immediately tug her the opposite direction of the front doors.  Taylor follows, gasping out, “Where are we going?”

“Just trust me,” You murmur.

There’s a maintenance exit, and you take it.  It spits you out in an alley where trucks can park, and you decide against dragging her towards the street.   Instead you take the opposite direction, whipping around a turn, and as you do, a chunk of brick suddenly explodes from the wall about a foot from your head.

“Fuck!” Taylor yelps.

No gunshot, just the aftermath.  So he has a noise suppressor too, and that’s a huge disadvantage for you not to know where the sound came from.  

The next turn you take should spill out on to the street...but instead you’re met with a gate, looming over you like an unconquerable beast.  You tug on it, but it doesn’t budge, and with a colorful string of curse words, you tuck Taylor behind you, feeling her hands knot in the back of her shirt, “I’m sorry I brought my phone.”

You shush her gently, and after a moment, Angelo appears around the corner, all cliche Italian gangster, everything except the fedora and the cigar.  You would have shot him, but his gun is leveled at your head as much as yours is at his, and you’re worried that if you shoot he’ll still pull his trigger and Taylor will get hurt.

You take a step backwards, pressing her into the fence, and Angelo grins like a snake, “You aren’t much of a CIA agent, are you?”

“They know where we are.  Kill us, but they’ll still find you,” You reply, your voice sharp, teeth bared like a wolf or a lion or something deadly.

Angelo laughs, and it makes you shake with anger, makes you want to rip your throat out, “Maybe you should just stick to the _runway_ , sweetheart.  But how about this.  You give me Taylor, and I’ll let you go on your merry way.”

“Yeah?” You ask, tone dripping arsenic.  Taylor is tense against you, probably crying, and in a motion you know you’ll have to apologize for later, you step out from in front of her and push her towards him hard, “Idiot is the reason we’ve almost gotten killed so many times.  Do whatever you want to her.”

Everything slows then, thick and throbbing.  You shove Taylor again, so hard she collides with him.  You watch as his right arm instinctively catches her in an attempt to steady his balance.  Taylor looks at you with a betrayed expression, and the same second that Angelo seems to understand what you’ve done, you lift your aim and pull the trigger hard.

The bullet connects with his throat, a burst of blood and stolen air.  He stumbles backwards, clutching the wound and staring at you in shock that you managed to do it.  The gun falls from his hand, skitters across the pavement, and releases a shot that connects with the bottom of the wall next to Taylor.

There’s blood sprayed across her face in a way that reminds you of freckles, and you wait for Angelo’s wet breathing to stop before you approach her and pull her tight into your arms, “I’m sorry.  I had to catch him off guard.”

Taylor nods against your shoulder, smearing crimson into the collar of your shirt.  Her knees collapse, and you fall with her, holding her on the disgusting concrete, rocking her back and forth.

“It’s over.  You’re safe.”

And this time you really get to mean it.

* * *

Glass tells you he’s proud of you, and for some reason it makes your chest feel warm.

Taylor calls her mom from your phone to let her know the news, and you realize her smile is the most amazing work of art you’ve ever seen.

* * *

“So, this is it, huh?” Taylor looks more vulnerable than that first day, standing outside of her private plane.  The wind whips her hair around her face and turns her cheeks pink, and she’s so beautiful.

In response, you step in and kiss her.   _Hard_.

It’s not sweet or loving.  It’s bruising, and the cut in your lip that had almost healed cracks open again, mixing the flavor of metal with the taste of Taylor’s mouth.  But you kiss her until you’re breathless, lungs fraying like strings.

When you pull back, you wipe blood from her mouth with your thumb, and her lips curve to press against the tip of it.  

Your forehead settles against hers, and you reach for her hands.  Your right one presses a piece of paper firmly into her left, and you hold on for a long moment before releasing her and stepping back.  Taylor unfolds the paper, on which you’ve printed your actual cell phone number.  She reads it, then looks up at you with a crooked grin, “So if I _happen_ to _accidentally_ text or call this number...”

“I might _happen_ to _accidentally_ answer the phone,” You shrug, nonchalantly, but you’re fighting back a grin.

The pilot peers around the door of the plane, clearing his throat, and Taylor looks at you sheepishly, “That’s my cue.”

“Be safe, cupcake” You tell her.

“I’ll try,” She replies.

You watch until the plane is so small that you can’t even see it anymore, and then you set off to secure your own flight home.

Your phone is on the kitchen counter and maybe, just maybe, you’ll turn it on to find a message waiting to be answered.


End file.
